


Dance With An Empress

by ginger_green



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Dancing, F/F, Fluff and Angst, One Shot, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-11-02 11:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20726189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_green/pseuds/ginger_green
Summary: A long evening on The Dreadful Whale, a bit of wine and a broken audiograph. What could possibly go wrong?





	Dance With An Empress

It was never meant to be this way.

Time has a tendency to play on our expectations. For Billie Lurk it would always flow too quickly. Things changed in a blink of an eye: Deirdre's laughter, carriage, broken statuette; Daud, rat plague, the Empress; wild flowers, whalebone, Delilah. She's learnt: the only way to survive is to run until her feet go numb and her lungs are on fire.

To Megan Foster everything seemed too slow. She couldn't stop cursing the engine for getting jammed every now and then. Same went for Sokolov when he forced her to wait while he roamed the streets (what is this old fool doing in Karnaca all day?). It's like her whole life consisted of waiting. Pacing on the deck, lamenting the blockade. Watching the tide and the wind. Sitting through sunrise and sunset.

That's how life used to be anyway. Before Emily Kaldwin showed up and everything went to shit.

Now, almost two months later - here she was. Waiting again. The Dreadful Whale was stuck ten miles north-east of the Palace District - ten miles of barred rock and drowned ship carcasses sticking out of the water. It was too late to turn back since the goddamn tide changed a while ago, forcing them to sit and wait until the sea rises. The sun was going down, slowly crawling beneath the broken skyline. Winds of Shindaery did not reach this part of the harbor. All was still. Only movement were peach-pink clouds in the lavender-colored sky.

Making zero knots toward shore did not do much to improve Megan's mood. She watched small waves pounce under the waterline. Salt bit her lips like a brash kiss. Indeed, she and the ocean felt so close at this point. Like spouses. Billie used to scoff at the sailors' tales. Megan found it never too late to make a new friend.

Light footsteps brushed her hearing. Old gears clicked into place as the skillfully concealed noise failed to elude her. The rustle, the unsteady gait. Emily the Empress.

"How many more hours of this waiting?"

Megan turned to meet her eyes. She was just as impatient, tapping her fingers on a crossed arm. Even after a long day she was perfect as ever, from the silky glimmer on her hair down to the tips of her dusted boots.

"Beg pardon, Majesty, awfully rude of me to keep you. Feel free to crush us into the rocks whenever it suits you."

Emily's features softened and her cheeks blushed lightly with shame. Sometimes she forgot The Dreadful Whale wasn't her property.

Megan was just teasing, of course. In all their time together she never spied a gesture or rude word meant directly for her. Emily would swear at sea or dust or even the Void, but never at her. She was not like the others.

She was still blushing as she leaned against the taffrail and burrowed her chin into the scarf. Poor girl was not used to sharp drafts that chilled sailor's bones even this far south.

"Can't you keep yourself warm downstairs?"

"I'll be fine. I brought a warming agent."

Emily fished a deep-red bottle out of her coat. Cheap southern wine from dock markets, made with stale grapes and grain alcohol. Megan couldn't help a small grin. Seems like the travels did not benefit Empress' taste.

The bottle was opened and changed hands a few times. Color got rich on Emily's cheeks, peachy and soft like the clouds. Her vigor was as much a mystery as the perfect outfit, but Megan loved it. Dunwall was hard as steel and greasy with whale oil; Emily was clean and smooth. Karnaca was spicy, dry and dusty; Emily was fresh like a wellspring.

_Stop. It's just wine talking. Wine and this damned waiting._

"Looks like the Duke is having a party," Emily noted, pointing out the distant lights that marked the location of the Grand Palace. Megan nodded and made another sip. It tasted terrible. But in a good way.

"I used to sneak to such parties in Dunwall when I was young. Only took a clean shirt and a stolen invitation. The nobles would mistake me for a servant and ask me to carve their meat as I raided their pockets. They danced and showed off their spoils and sold secrets over brandy. I could hear it all... when I could hold from throwing up. They never knew."

A playful smile crooked the corner of Emily's mouth. She must have gotten used to these random details of Megan's life. Sharing with her felt natural, as if they had known each other for a very long time. It scared Megan at times, so she didn't think of it much. She isolated the past in a deep corner of her heart so the rest could flow freely over the long nights. She had shared much over cards or to keep Emily from butchering the lute (who would've thought the Empress was so bad at music!). Emily knew everything - and nothing - about her.

"I'm having a hard time picturing you dance."

"Because I didn't grow up in a palace?"

"Much rather because I can count exactly how many times you smile every day. Yesterday 'twas three times."

That was too much. That knowing chuckle of hers rendered Megan of what little patience she had. Emily used the pause to snatch the bottle from her palm. Her lips curled as she gulped the wine. A small red drop stained her alabaster chin.

Megan marched to the lower deck and returned with Anton's collection of street concertos from Morley and an audiograph. He never used it anyway, too busy tinkering with old engine parts. She picked what looked like the most decent (and least damaged) recording. The old machine hummed with white noise as the card slid into the feeder. Emily watched her with a raised brow.

"Clear the deck, Majesty."

She could tell Emily was pleased - she had that flash of mischief in her eye. She complained anyway, even as she moved aside to give Megan space.

"If you fall overboard, this wine's washing the toilet."

The music gurgled through the rusty gears, crunchy sounds mixed into the piano and violin. One, two, three. Left - right - left, left. And spin.

Easy once you get the hang of it. No need to stay on guard, to watch for threats or traps. Just listen. Deirdre made it look so easy, splashing the mud with her bare feet, grey dust swirling around her bony ankles. Billie would always end up stomping her toes.

Left - right - left, left. And spin. Heat from the alcohol rose in her chest, and she felt loose and free for the first time in two months. Emily clasped in rhythm. Clap - clap - chap-chap-chap. Left. Right. Left-left-spin-

"You really are good at this!"

Before Megan could snap a witty comeback, Emily sprung from the taffrail. She moved with far greater confidence, every step refined by years of training. In a blink of an eye she was close, almost touching Megan, almost brushing her hips, almost catching her hand - but not quite.

Billie hated being touched. Billie did not trust a swift hand. Megan froze in fear - but not the fear of touching. She feared because there was no anger. No hate.

Her hands. Emily's soft hands.

She stopped, breathing heavily, eyes shining. Is it drink or music?

"Aren't you going to invite me for a quadrille, madam?"

_Don't. You'll regret it._

"I..."

Before she could blurt out a yes, Emily took both of her hands and tugged her into the dance. She put one palm on Megan's shoulder and another into her hand, and there was nothing else to do but to hug her waist and pull her closer, spinning to the sound of poorly tuned piano. Every other step she would get too close, making their bodies brush lightly. Each touch sent sizzling lightnings through Megan's entire being.

It was never meant to be this way. They were never meant to meet at all. She asked for the Royal Protector. He would understand. He would not be so foreign, so damn fascinated with everything around. He would not look at her with this girlish shine, like she was a decorated toy, a frosted cake... a _wanted_, welcome change. Curse this tide. Curse this idiot music lover. Curse this ship, curse the cheap wine. And curse the Empress.

Another blow of cold wind from the open sea made Emily shiver. Instinctively, she leaned into Megan's embrace and buried slim fingers into the folds of her coat. They burned like iron.

The audiograph coughed out the last chords and the music stopped. They stood still for a moment. Emily's breath was wet and hot on Megan's neck. The wind tickled her shaved nape.

Then Her Majesty took a step back. Megan suddenly realized she'd stopped breathing for a minute. She drew in some fresh air and forced out an awkward, pathetic grin.

"Well, nobody's overboard," Emily laughed. A few streaks of raven hair have gone astray and were now tingling her face. Megan had to clench a fist to hold herself from reaching out and tucking the locks behind the Empress' ears. Her left arm pulsed with dull pain.

They both knew not what to do, standing so close to each other. A few secrets apart. Megan cast about with a lost look, asking for help from nowhere.

"Water's almost up," she offered in order to fill the silence. "We should be able to dock in a couple hours."

Shit. When did it happen? When did she stop watching the horizon?

When did she stop waiting?

Emily followed her gaze. Once again she was collected, hidden by the facade of nobility. Even her posture, the span of her shoulders, reeked of regal breeding. Megan suddenly wished she could shove her with an elbow and hear her laugh.

"I will go and prepare myself. It's time to end Luca Abele's reign."

As if she needed any more preparation. She was impeccable.

Once more her footsteps rang in Megan's ears. Time began to slow down. She took her former post, meanwhile picking up the left bottle and downing it in one go. For a while she didn't move, then winced and hurled the bottle into the harbor.

Her lips were stung by harsh kisses of the sea.


End file.
